


And So It Goes

by TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: #Sad, #a levels, #angst, #cot death, #dads, #depression, #finally wrote it down, #flashback, #fuckin give us teenage rosie, #gay, #gay dads, #gcse, #ghost, #had this idea a while ago, #high school, #i need the sass, #if you can't tell i love rosie, #johnlock - Freeform, #marriage, #mary watson, #mental health, #motfiss, #slaughterhouse-five, #teenage! Rosie Watson, #the children's crusade, #violin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman/pseuds/TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman
Summary: Sherlock fights to come to terms with his own mind after he and John suffer another loss. To comfort himself, he uses Rosie and comforts her as he never was as a teenager struggling with depression.





	And So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> hello, everyone!! the title of this was inspired by the book "slaughterhouse-five" by kurt vonnegut. please enjoy :))

 The floorboards creaked and bent to the only sign of life in the wee hours of the night, Sherlock’s footsteps. Insomnia was more common ever since the incident, but for some reason it was Sherlock who had more trouble adjusting than John. That could be because John was used to loss at this point, two out of three mainly caused by Sherlock. He winced at his thoughts as he continued his trek upstairs, to where he heard what he came out for in the first place: crying.

 

“Rosie?” he opened the door slightly, sheets ruffling swiftly after from a few feet away. “Rosamund, I know you’re awake. Now,  _ why _ , is the question.”

 

“It’s nothing, my question is  _ why _ I have my own bedroom if I can’t be left on my own  _ in _ it,” the lump in the sheets replied.

 

“I asked first.”

 

“Don’t play that card,” Rosie scoffed, sitting up. “You’re too old for that game.”

 

“And  _ you’re _ too young to be staying up this late, what’s on your mind?” As he crossed the room, in the pale moonlight he could see streaks where the tears stained her face. Sherlock sat beside this girl, barely 15 years of age, also much too young to be as sad as she is. Her face offered no expression, but her eyes hid desolation behind emptiness. Something Sherlock immediately recognized. He ran his hand down her light-brown hair, her head sinking into his shoulder in defeat. 

 

“Nothing, I told you. Everything I think and feel is nothing. It’s almost like sadness, but suffocating,” blue eyes met his as Rosie silently pleaded for him to understand.

 

“It’s okay, I’m here to help this time, you’re not alone. Not again. I never want you to feel that way,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, as if he were speaking to himself. He asked Rosie if she remembered the song he used to sing to her when she couldn’t fall asleep so many years ago, she hummed in reply. With a breath in, he sang;

 

_ Well, I’ve never been a man of many words, _

_ And there’s nothing I could say that you haven’t heard, _

_ But I’ll sing you love songs ‘till the day I die. _

_ The way I’m feeling, I can’t keep it inside… _

 

 It didn’t take long for her breathing to slow, a sign that she had finally relaxed enough to rest. Sherlock looked over, her eyes were closed. He laid her back down gently against the mattress, taking the empty spot next to her as assurance that she would sleep soundly through the night.

 

                                                                                             ***

 

  Light filtered into the room through dusty curtains, illuminating pale skin against dark curls asleep on the floor, next to an empty cot.

 

“Sherlock, get up,” John shook his shoulder, attempting to pry him off the wooden floorboards.

 

“Mhm?” Sherlock’s eyes opened to meet John’s, full of worry and slight annoyance. He tuned out John’s lecture as he tried to escape the bedroom, escape his head. It went something along the lines of  _ “you can’t keep doing this, Sherlock. You know she’s not-” _ . Tea was already set out in the sitting room, just as it always is around 9 in the morning. John was leaning in the doorway, aware that Sherlock was ignoring him. He took note of the dark circles under his eyes, knowing that he was up late again last night. Must’ve gotten out of bed, if he came to bed at all. 

 

“Why don’t you seem my therapist?” John offered, only getting a piercing blue stare in reply. “Please, Sherlock, I can’t keep seeing you like this. I know you’re upset, but her death wasn’t your fault. It’s very common in infants to-”

 

“Can’t you just shut up? I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped, clearly the opposite of what he states. The bloodshot veins in his eyes were more apparent than ever, and he rarely even touched his violin anymore, let alone his food. John often needed to sit in the same room as him and wait until he’s had at least half of whatever meal John made for them. Heavy footsteps turned and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts. The door opened, and eyes too similar to Mary’s made contact with his.

 

“Morning, Dad,” Rosie threw herself onto the loveseat, eyeing the violin in the corner. “Haven’t picked that up in a while.”

 

“‘Good morning’ is hardly the thing to be saying, it’s nearly ten,” Sherlock ignored her remark, eyes trained on the clock by the window.

 

“What a “helicopter parent” thing to say, honestly you sound more and more like Uncle Mycroft everyday.”

 

“Don’t call him that,” He grimaced.

 

“Why not?” Rosie copied his expression. “He’s my uncle, isn’t he?”

 

“Well, technically…” Sherlock mumbled. He watched as Rosie crossed the room, picking up the wooden sting that sat idle against the wall.

 

“I’d like you to teach me to play, we hardly do anything together anymore. Besides, this poor violin is all on it’s lonesome. No one here understands it but you,” Rosie stood defiantly by his chair, urging Sherlock to do as she says.

 

“You already play piano,” Sherlock waved off her request.

 

“And I’m already starting my GCSE’s a year early. What can I say, my ‘thirst for knowledge’ is insatiable,” she looked satisfied with her retort, still standing behind him proudly.

 

“A Levels would be more impressive,” he smirked as Rosie hit him over the head with the bow.

 

“I’m serious, please?” Sherlock turned to smile at her.

 

“Anything for you, Rosebud,” he picked up the violin, showing her where the shoulder rest should be placed, and how far the scroll should be tilted up. After rosining the bow, Sherlock began to tune the lonely instrument. John walked out into the kitchen to see Sherlock playing a sad tune, knowing it had to be meant for her.

 

“Y-you’re playing…” he stood, stunned at the sight of the sun against the shimmer of the violin, something he hadn’t seen in two months. John went unnoticed by the man across the room, someone he feels he’s barely talked to in too long. It was just like when John first left him alone, when he moved in with Mary. Sherlock was heartbroken, and this time John couldn’t save him. John couldn’t save anyone anymore. He was a doctor, for Christ’s sake, and he still ended up losing his daughter to cot death. No matter how common it was, he would never forgive himself. It’s been months and he  _ still _ doesn’t know what he did wrong. Her smile was forever in his mind, every time he closed his eyes. Not even Nytol aided his restless nights. Every Sunday he made his way down to the cemetery to read her stories she never got the chance to be old enough to understand. Sherlock used to come with him, Sherlock… he used to do a lot of things. Not any longer. Their days were filled with nothing but ghosts of what used to be. What could have been. The sharp  _ clunk! _ of Sherlock’s instrument hitting the floor woke John up from his trance as he ran to the man that was sobbing on the floor of their sitting room.

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” John held Sherlock’s face to his chest, sighing at the “no, it’s not” that was his reply. His voice broke as he replied, “No, it’s not. But it is what it is, and that’s all that we can say now.”

 

 At this, Sherlock stood and made his way to the bedroom, calling for John to get dressed as well. He hated that saying, now. His explanation to his husband was that they needed to get out more, he wanted to see his daughter. John figured it would only be polite to bring some food, have a picnic lunch with Rosie as long as they would all be together.

 

“Order 57!” a woman called out from the counter. John mumbled an ‘i’ll get it’ before stepping through the glass doors that stood ajar. Sherlock leaned against the light pole, eyes to yet another cloudy sky. All you can expect from London. It is what it is. 

 

“Coming, Dad!” Sherlock’s head snapped to a girl who looked about barely 15 years of age, her blue eyes meeting his as her light-brown hair was swept behind her in the wind. The girl looked away, confused by the sheer look of terror on Sherlock’s face, and ran to another man who was a couple feet away, arm outstretched to meet her. When John walked out, he asked Sherlock if he had just seen a ghost.

 

“She’s… she’s only 15. She didn’t deserve it, I wasn’t there for her. Y-yet I just saw her! She’s still here, John, we can’t leave her alone again! She was so sad- she…” Sherlock’s ramblings barely made any sense to John, almost on the verge of tears himself.

 

“What are you on about, she didn’t get the chance to be 15, okay?” John grabbed Sherlock’s face, desperate to get through to the man with desolation hidden by emptiness in his eyes. “It wasn’t our fault, she died suddenly, we took perfect care of her. This just happens, all it does is happen and there’s nothing we can do.”

 

“We have to be there for her,” Sherlock whispered. “We can’t leave another child alone. Neither of them deserved it. No kid deserves to be alone when they’re too sad to save themselves. They’re too upset, they don’t understand how.” 

 

 John looked at Sherlock’s face, suddenly the owner of an expression so vulnerable that he looked just like a lost kid who didn’t know how to save himself. He was reliving how he spent his early teenage years, alone. Rosie’s death was his way of projecting how he felt, his way of telling John it was happening all over again. He still had a chance to save someone. John could at least save Sherlock. He didn’t care how many damn times he had to do it, as long as it still somehow avenged Rosie in a way. To show that she would have been cared for, maybe she could finally rest. Maybe they could all just finally rest.

 

“Okay, alright. I understand. I’m here to help this time, you’re not alone. Not again,” John watched as Sherlock’s tears slowed, settling to a stop. “Rosie knows we love her. She’s safe.”

 

 They were all safe.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! if you enjoyed please leave a comment and kudos. here, https://open.spotify.com/user/dearjaredkleinman/playlist/49EcLGaz2zMw0V9pWr0KkC?si=LJNPo1hRQ0C7Ut_vB3gsUQ , you can listen to the johnlock playlist i've made and my instagram is @thescienceofsherlock. :))


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